


Red Flower Blooming

by AmorousGreen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Menstrual Cunnilingus, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmorousGreen/pseuds/AmorousGreen
Summary: It’s plain embarrassing is what it is. The Slayer is not supposed to be nearly incapacitated by cramps.
Relationships: Angel/Buffy Summers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Red Flower Blooming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



It’s plain embarrassing is what it is. The Slayer is not supposed to be nearly incapacitated by _cramps_.

Under the normal course of things, she isn’t, of course. She can count on her body operating in peak physical condition; just as Slayer healing means she effectively never gets sick, her period has never been more than a mild discomfort since she was Called.

But Buffy hasn’t completely recovered her strength from the Cruciamentum yet, and this time it hits her with an intensity she hasn’t experienced since middle school. She’s on patrol when it happens - because of course she is, isn’t that always how her life goes - trading blows with some vamp when her lower abdomen turns into one big ache and she staggers back against a tombstone, instinctively curling in on herself.

The vamp springs up, pressing the unexpected opening, but turns to dust before reaching her. No doubt she could have handled it, god knows she’s fought through worse and against more dangerous enemies, but she’s really glad she’s patrolling with Angel tonight.

They cut patrol short after that and head back to the mansion. Now she’s curled up on the couch, reclining against her boyfriend’s chest with his arms around her, which she would consider the makings of a really good night if only it didn’t still feel like an angry badger had taken up residence in her uterus and was exercising its claws.

She appreciates the position all the same; it’s more intimacy than they usually allow themselves. He’s relaxed a little on the “look but don’t touch” rules for the past few nights, seeming to recognize that she needs the comfort. One of his hands strokes over her hair. She lifts her head to kiss him, wraps her arms about his neck and loses herself in the sensation for long moments. Much as all they cannot have aches, she thinks she could almost live on Angel kisses.

She ventures to uncurl slightly, shifting atop him, one of her legs slipping between his. Closely entwined as they are, she can feel him hardening against her.

Her first thought when she processes what she’s feeling is to be flattered and a little relieved. For all that he promises he loves her and longs for her, there’s a limit to the reassurance words can provide and the physical proof of his desire is a welcome boost to her self-esteem. Her second thought is confusion, because sticky and crampy and gross as she is at the moment, she’s rarely felt less desirable. “I can’t believe you want me _now_ ,” she murmurs.

“I always want you.” He kisses her forehead.

“Yeah, but ... when I’m a miserable ball of ick?”

“I beg to differ with that description.” He gives her that half-smile of his. Then his tone turns earnest. “Buffy, I can smell when you’re bleeding, and it makes it hard for me to control myself with you. Harder than usual.” He swallows hard. His eyes are dark. “I want nothing more than to bury my face between your legs and taste the sweetness of your blood and your pussy combined, to make you writhe and moan and climax for me as I drink down your juices.”

The mental picture his words paint is entirely too arousing. She shifts restlessly, bucking against his thigh to ease the sudden fire in her core. Her hand finds the bulge at his waist, stroking him through his pants. “So why don’t you?” she says.

“Buffy.” His voice is a strained groan, and she knows that tone for ‘why must you insist on testing me?’ She hears the implicit warning, but does not heed it.

“Angel, please. It’s not like we haven’t done more before.” She thinks of the weeks leading up to her 17th birthday. They’d done a lot of very heavy petting, enthusiastic exploration of each other’s bodies untainted by knowledge of what was to come. Never again will they have the luxury of being so carefree or free of fear, but it seems patently unfair that _everything_ must be off the table. She knows his reasoning is to avoid temptation, avoid anything that may lead to them getting caught up in the moment and carried away - but just being around each other is a temptation, and stretching the tension between them to the breaking point hardly seems a safer course.

He draws in a deep unnecessary breath, and she can tell his determination is wavering.

With just the right amount of casualness, she muses aloud, “Is it true what I’ve heard that orgasm can help ease cramps?”

Honestly, she’s already hurting less than she was. But while Angel is a master of self-denial, he’s a lot easier to sway if she can convince him to think of something as what she needs rather than what he wants.

His expression softens, and she knows she has him.

His hand slips down to gently massage her through her pants, and she arches into the touch. “Buffy,” he says again, warm and gentle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “ _Please_.”

He gathers her up in his arms, lifting her so he can stand and then setting her back down on the couch. He kneels before her and strips off her leggings and panties. When he looks up at her, his gaze is intense and focused and so heated she half expects to burst into flames.

His hands push her thighs apart, pulling her legs over his shoulders, and then his mouth is on her. He sucks briefly at her clit before moving lower. His tongue strokes across her entrance, parting her folds.

He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and she feels his face change against her skin. He runs the tip of one fang along her outer lips, the sharp point lightly grazing but never breaking the skin. The rush is incredible.

His tongue plunges into her core again, eagerly lapping at her. He brings a hand up, and presses his thumb to her clit, deftly massaging it while his tongue continues to probe inside her. His other hand slips up under her shirt to fondle her breasts. Shamelessly she grinds against him.

He’s way too good at this, she thinks; he has her writhing and moaning in no time, sending her into waves of ecstasy that have her forgetting all thought of pain. She convulses against him, her thighs clamping down on his head with force that would have injured a human but he isn’t even phased. “Angel,” she keens. “Oh my god, Angel!” He doesn’t stop until she’s come three times, and she is limp and gasping against him.

She shimmies back into her pants, and makes room for him to join her on the couch again. “I love you,” she murmurs, stretching out alongside him.

He clutches her close, and presses a kiss to her hair. “I love you.”

That’s when she processes that he is still hard, that he has been attentive to her pleasure and neglected his own. She reaches for his fly. “Let me return the favor?”


End file.
